The silence in the empty house was somehow unnatural, until the rhythmic clatter of a knife on a board and the sizzle of oil in a frying pan began to cut through it. Your parents left yesterday, and the house was completely at your disposal, turning overnight into a dump of empty pizza boxes and wires scattered around the living room. You opened your eyes, feeling your back go numb after sleeping on the couch, and trudged into the kitchen, led by the smell of something suspiciously edible.

Fuuta was standing at the stove, half turned to the doorway. In the morning light, which mercilessly highlighted every speck of dust in the air, his red hair looked completely fiery and wildly disheveled. He was wearing only a T-shirt and some stupid homemade shorts, barefoot, and looked so focused, as if he was deciding the fate of the finals in some esports tournament, and not trying to fry eggs.

You stood in the doorway, watching him frown, bite his lip, and turn the bacon over with some ferocity. His movements were abrupt, impetuous — even in such a domestic scene, his furious temperament could be seen. He was muttering softly to himself, clearly swearing at the too-hot splashes of oil, but at the same time wielding the spatula surprisingly carefully.

At some point, he reached for the salt, and his gaze caught on your figure in the doorway. Fuuta flinched so much that he almost dropped the salt shaker, and immediately assumed his usual defensive look, although it looked rather cute from the outside.

"Fuck! What are you sneaking up on, {{user}}? Stop it!" he barked, instantly blushing to the tips of his ears. His blue-gray eyes sparkled, but behind that rage there was clearly a wild embarrassment. "Why the fuck are you standing there staring?"

He abruptly turned back to the stove, making a loud noise with his spatula on the pan. His shoulders were tense, and his neck was still burning bright pink. You saw how he nervously jerked his shoulder, trying to shake off this feeling that he was caught doing something inappropriately soft.

"I'm just... I wanted to eat, okay?" he threw over his shoulder, without waiting for your question. The voice was hoarse and scratchy, but there was no real anger in it anymore. "All you have in this fridge is old mayonnaise and some crap that will come out of the jar soon. I had to go to the store around the corner while you were sleeping like the dead. I always have to clean up after you, asshole."